


mi corazón de cenicero

by lemoninagin



Series: flip your lucky for love [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bars and Pubs, Bottom Lance (Voltron), Cigarettes, Finger Sucking, First Time, Frottage, Galaxy Garrison, Jealous Lance (Voltron), M/M, Masochism, Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Public Sex, S&M, Secret Relationship, Shotgunning, Smoking, Underage Drinking, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 15:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10596552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/pseuds/lemoninagin
Summary: At the Garrison, they’re nothing more than two apparent strangers, two classmates in different fields with different goals in mind. Two people with different social circles and interests, two people just trying to get by in life.But during the night, the town belongs to them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epiproctan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epiproctan/gifts), [sealestial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealestial/gifts).



> The title of this translates to “my ashtray heart”, which is a lyric from the song ["Ashtray Heart" by Placebo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HrnNjNWwkUM). It's really the only thing I could think about while writing this. Fair warning, there's graphic descriptions of being burned by cigarettes.

 

At the Garrison, they’re nothing more than two apparent strangers, two classmates in different fields with different goals in mind. Two people with different social circles and interests, two people just trying to get by in life.

 

During the day, that’s all they are.

 

There are only three things Lance knows for sure about the enigma that is Keith, fighter class pilot, his self-proclaimed rival, and all around thorn-in-his-side.

 

He knows that Keith loves to fly, even though he thinks he’s a bit of a show off. Lance has memorized the trademark gleam he gets in his eye, the barely-contained excitement that scrawls across his face and the shape of that smug-ass smirk that curls his lips, every time he shifts gears and absolutely obliterates the simulation.

 

Lance isn't sure watching Keith raise to the top rank in their grade while barely lifting a finger entirely comes from a place of jealousy anymore, but for now, that's what he's claiming.

 

Lance knows that Keith hangs out with Takashi Shirogane a lot (and pretty much _only_ Shiro), ace prodigy pilot and the Garrison’s most beloved golden boy. It probably raises equal amounts of jealousy in him to see them together so often, for several reasons, but he doesn’t see the point in inspecting that more than he needs to.

 

The third thing Lance finds out one day when he decides to switch things up in his routine to eat on the roof for lunch. There isn’t any rule around that says students can’t venture up there, but it also isn’t a place Lance is so sure needs to be explicitly stated not to go to -- it’s more implied. Still, Hunk is busy with his engineering exam for this period and he saw Keith slink away not too long ago, tray in hand, clearly on a mission to put himself at a good socially isolative distance from the rest of his peers.

 

He’s seen Keith sneak off enough to know he goes up here, but he never knew why until now.

 

He’s sure his jaw is hanging wide when he flings open the door from the stairwell and is met with a sight he’s never seen before.

 

“You _smoke_ ?” Lance says, flabbergasted, “ _You_ , Mr. Bigshot, straight A student, and overall good boy -- smokes _cigarettes_?”

 

He doesn't know how he missed this. Does Keith brush his teeth more often than he gives him credit for?

 

“No,” Keith takes a long drag, holding the thing steady between two fingers as he flashes him a muted smile, “and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

His gaze shuffles away as quickly as it first washed over Lance, settling on watching the sun that’s about midway in its journey across the sky. Sitting on the edge of the building, he’s kicking his feet back and forth over it like a little kid, feigning ignorance of Lance’s existence, as usual.

 

“Don’t be such a fucking smart-ass,” Lance grumbles, closing the distance between them in a few short strides and plopping down next to Keith. He swings his legs over the side, because hell if he’s scared of toeing the stupid edge of a stupid thousands-of-feet-high building, and almost slams his tray of food in his lap.

 

He doesn’t get far with eating his lunch, though. Watching Keith smoke is too distracting -- the way he handles the cigarette so carefully, the dainty lift of it to his lips, the pleased curve of them as he inhales. He’s never seen him handle anything that gently before, with such patience.

 

Lance sets his tray to the side. “Look at you.” Lance nudges him with his shoulder. “You’ve got a bad boy streak in you, huh? Who knew?”

 

It’s supposed to be rhetorical, sure, but Lance really does want to know. He wants to know if he’s the first to find out, or if Shiro’s already beat him to it, like with everything else that’s even vaguely Keith related.

 

But Keith doesn’t realize that, and even if he did, Lance is positive he wouldn’t tell him anyway.

 

“I don’t know why you’re acting so surprised. Did you not see me punch out that asshole the other day?”

 

Keith flexes his left hand, showing off the purpling and skinned joints, his spoils of war. His knuckles are crusted with dried blood, scabbing over slowly for something that happened nearly a week ago. Working with the simulations clearly isn’t doing any favors to help him heal faster.

 

It looks painful, swollen, and in the back of his mind, Lance thinks he should probably see the nurse about it. But Keith doesn’t even flinch. He turns to Lance, all cock-sure smile and white, white teeth. Lance’s heart stutters in his chest.

 

Keith’s lips tug at the cigarette. Lance watches the butt glow and recede. “I wouldn’t exactly say my record is glowing with praise from Commander Iverson.”

 

 _Oh_ , Lance thinks as the image comes back to him, the beautiful fury on Keith’s face as he landed a hit so hard the guy about a foot taller than him almost toppled over and an audible, sickening _crack_ echoed through the halls. He’d stumbled in on the tail end of the fight, so he isn’t sure what got Keith so riled up in the first place, but how could he forget about something like _that_?

 

“Yeah, buddy, I was…” Lance inhales sharply. “...definitely there. What was that about anyway?”

 

Keith shrugs, puffing smoke into the wind. _Who knows_ , Lance interprets that as.

 

Lance crawls his hand closer to Keith’s free hand, which is resting lightly on the concrete. At the same time, he shifts his body enough to press himself more to Keith’s side. He leans towards Keith’s ear, lowering his voice to a suggestive whisper. “Hey. That was _really_ fucking hot, by the way.”

 

Keith chuckles, which isn’t quite the reaction Lance was looking for. “Of course you’d think that.” Keith taps his cigarette on the side of the wall, and they both watch the ash swirl into the breeze as it breaks. “Sometimes, I wonder…”

 

The way Keith suddenly trails off piques Lance’s interest. The palm so close to his is now within grabbing distance. Lance isn’t sure what to tackle first.

 

“...Wonder what?”

 

“Nothing. Never mind.” Keith shakes his head. There’s a subtle flush creeping across his cheeks that he seems to be trying to hide with his hair. He abruptly changes the subject. “What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have that, uh...Hank guy to hang out with or whatever?”

 

Lance frowns. As usual, he wants answers, wants to know more about Keith, but as usual, he’s being cut out.

 

“Um, excuse _you_ , his name is _Hunk_ , and he’s awesome, so don’t forget it,” Lance corrects him tersely, “And he’s an engineer, so no. Their finals are today. I’m free _all_ afternoon.”

 

A suggestion. Lance lets it lie there, and Keith completely doesn’t pick up on it.

 

Instead, Keith looks at him as if he hasn’t exactly answered the question. All Lance can think of is that he can’t recall if they’ve ever talked this long before without at least one of them shoving their hand down the other’s pants or Keith occupying his mouth with tongue. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward without that.

 

“So where’s _your_ boy then?” Lance doesn’t even try to hide the bitterness that seeps through his words, “Since apparently we’re on a civil enough level right now to make small talk.”

 

Keith raises an eyebrow, confused. Lance sighs, waving a hand in the air and pushing his chest out at an attempt to appear bulky and built, like he assumes Keith must like at some level. “ _Shiro_ ,” he affirms, and Keith mouths a small, silent ‘ _oh_ ’.

 

Keith kicks his feet a few times before he responds. “He, um. He doesn’t like when I smoke. He wants me to quit.” Lance’s frown deepens while Keith looks away, abashed. “Er, actually, right now he thinks I have…”

 

Surprising, Lance thinks. Keith trusts him to keep this information to himself. Or maybe he just knows Lance well enough that he's aware he's way too much of a coward to actually talk to Shiro, his technical idol as much as he is his rival in love. Either way, Lance’s heart soars higher than it probably should at the thought.

 

_Trust. Shiro not getting to know._

 

“Well, I like it.” Keith eyes travel back to him curiously. Lance pushes on through the thick of his tongue, through the dryness coating his entire mouth. “It, uh, you know. It uh, suits you.”

 

Oh god, the sweat coating his palms. There’s no way he can sneak in some hand-holding now without being found out.

 

“That hardly counts,” Keith says, but he’s shying away, hunching his shoulders as he laces his hands together and settles them in his lap. He's left the cigarette hanging limply between his lips. “I’m pretty sure you like _everything_.”

 

Lance doesn’t dignify that with a response. There’s nothing he can retaliate there.

 

He lands his wandering hand on Keith’s thigh, letting his fingers splay just shy of his groin. He doesn’t know how many times he’s thought about touching Keith like this, on Garrison property with his uniform clinging to him in all the right places. He wants to lay him down onto the cold concrete, ravish him with the thing half-on, half-off. He wants to see those pressed pants nice and tight around Keith’s ankles, that ugly jacket with its dumb special award badges ripped wide open.

 

And he could -- _could_ probably do that. Another thing he knows about Keith, maybe then, is that he often follows his intuition. Lance wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s needy, exactly, but there’s no doubt at this point that he doesn’t mind Lance doing things like that to him.

 

At the very least, Lance could attempt it.

 

So Lance lets his lips brush against Keith’s ear before he drags them to right above the hem of Keith’s collar, sucking lightly over his dully thudding pulse-point. Keith shudders before he jerks back as if burned.

 

“Not here, stupid,” Keith protests, shoving him away, “God. The officers _do_ patrol here at certain times, you know.”

 

He sucks in a large breath as he flicks the butt of his cigarette over the side, and Lance isn’t sure if he’s trying to filter back in oxygenated air or attempting to restrain himself.

 

“I was just gonna do some kissin’, chill your mullet.”

 

Lance pouts at his side, remaining seated as Keith stands and stretches towards the sky. If he stares too long at the exposed sliver of skin that flashes when Keith’s shirt rides up, well. That’s for Keith to deal with. There’s plenty of cold water to go around in the communal showers.

 

“O’Hara’s then?” Lance asks, trying not to sound too hopeful or desperate, “Tonight, maybe? Same time, same place?”

 

“Mm,” Keith hums absently, pulling his arms through the sleeves of a light, patterned jacket that Lance swears he’s seen Shiro wear before. Once he gets it on, the way it rests so far down past his hips basically confirms Lance’s suspicions.

 

Jealousy thrums hot through his veins. He clenches tight fists into his pockets.

 

“Yeah, sure, why not.” Keith shrugs, forever infuriatingly oblivious, and then turns on his heel. “I’ll see you then.”

 

Lance watches him go. He watches the door even after it closes and Keith disappears in a flash of black and red. The smell of tobacco is still lingering around as if mocking him, despite the breeze that’s been gently wafting by.

 

Lance breathes in deeply, eyes locked on the lazily drifting clouds. The sun is nice, pleasant, like melting chocolate on his skin. It feels warmer up here than the brisk remnants of ending winter usually allows for, but he pulls his jacket tighter around him.

 

They’re just two strangers, Lance reminds himself.

 

Nothing more, nothing less.

 

* * *

 

 

At the Garrison, they’re nothing more than two apparent strangers, two classmates in different fields with different goals in mind. Two people with different social circles and interests, two people just trying to get by in life.

 

But during the night, the town belongs to them.

 

Lance probably couldn’t explain how it originally happened. One night, he was hitting up the desert nightlife with his best friend Hunk, drinking and batting his eyes at any girl who would bother showing him attention, and the next, he was coming in his pants down a dark alleyway with the hot, top fighter pilot from their grade, Keith Kogane, rutting against him.

 

Shit happens. Lance considers himself a man who goes with the flow. The alcohol may have cushioned his sense of regret when he woke up the next morning to brutal bite marks mottling his neck, but it never did erase his sense of uneasiness wondering why someone on such a higher level above him would settle with wrapping their lips around his cock.

 

Maybe it’s something about the seedy dive bar, the atmosphere of it that has his belly coiling tight the moment he spots Keith in the crowd. Maybe it’s the way that Keith tips back his drink like he’s already dehydrated, or maybe it’s how he smokes like a man starved. Maybe it’s the way his eyes look in that dark lighting, or the way the smoke that always hangs thick in the air fans out around his hair, like some unredeeming halo.

 

O’Hara’s isn’t where lovers go to have a private, romantic evening. O’Hara’s is where people go to get fucked up, and fast. O’Hara’s is where people go to forget, to live in a fantasy world before they have to drag themselves back to the stressful life on a strict military base. O’Hara’s doesn’t give two fucks about carding people, and at this point, the place has become such a commonly known outlet for illegal activity, Lance is convinced the owners must be involved with the mafia.

 

Just as such, O’Hara’s is where people go to have a good time, and it’s not struggling to attract customers tonight.

 

Lance pushes himself through throngs of cheering, drunken idiots. He pushes through dancing people and sad people, all the same. The acrid smell of alcohol fills his nose, and he only takes a detour on his important mission to grab a bottle of beer from the bar.

 

He pauses for a second in the pulsating throb of the crowd, the beat of the music vibrating heavily in his chest. He goes back to ask the bartender for another.

 

The past few weeks he hasn’t been able to go out at all, not after Commander Dos Santos had assigned him a mountain of extra work due to his poor simulation scores. He hasn’t seen Keith since that night after he first found out he smoked, and he’s itching like Keith does when his hands can’t pull out a cigarette in the middle of class.

 

He spent far longer getting ready than he cares to admit. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him lately, but he even showered and spritzed on some cologne.

 

Not surprisingly, Keith is still there even though he’s about an hour late, sitting at their usual table. Judging by the amount of butts in the ashtray, it’s obvious he’s been chain smoking to pass the time it’s taken him to get there.

 

Keith spots him, stick hanging loosely from his lips, and waves him over. Lance’s breath catches in his throat. He makes his way over in no time at all.

 

Seated across from him, Lance watches the embers glow in the dim light. He watches the way it washes over sharp cheekbones and then dwindles as it draws closer to Keith’s mouth, illuminating those full, pink lips. He watches as they twitch around the stick as he draws in another tapered breath, soft and slow, until the ash is nearly doubling. The hint of upturned lips is all Lance sees before a large, heady puff of smoke blinds him.

 

“So,” Keith murmurs, tapping at the tray and licking nicotine tinged-lips, eyes like cutting razors that raise gooseflesh over Lance’s skin. “You need a light or what?”

 

Lance wants to say something cool. He wants to reply with something smooth and suave like “ _why don't you let me be your light tonight_ ” or “ _the only light I need is you, baby_ ”. Honestly though, he’d be happier with pretty much anything else coming out of his mouth in place of the choked _“hurgh”_ that escapes him as second-hand smoke fills his lungs.

 

Keith tilts his head, eyes owlish, and grinds the butt into the glass. He’s taking out a crumpled pack from his pocket, turning it upside-down and rapping it against one palm lightly before pulling two more slim sticks from it.

 

“I mean,” Lance smothers down another sharp rasp of breath, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

 

The phantom voice of his mother is berating him in his head, warning him about the dangers of lung cancer and emphysema, but Lance shakes it off. They’re both adults here. He figures of all the substances that are bad to put in your body, a little tar here and there in your lungs probably won’t make a difference.

 

Keith nods, proffering him the cigarette. Lance takes it, hands shaking, and places it awkwardly between his lips, the way he’s watched Keith do thousands of times over.

 

Keith digs around in his coat pocket. He’s wearing all black tonight, with a tight little shirt that Lance hasn’t seen before. It's stretched perfectly taught across his highly-defined chest, and Lance pretends not to have been staring when Keith pokes him in the arm to get his attention. The skin where he makes contact sizzles with electricity.

 

“Lance, it’s fine. You don’t have to do this. I was just teasing, I know you don’t smoke.”

 

He won’t be made a fool of. He can handle a little cigarette smoke, no problem. Keith shouldn’t underestimate him.

 

“Shut up and do it,” Lance grits, mouth thinning, tightening around the paper. It tastes like what he imagines dirt and smoked wood probably taste like. His eyes narrow as he stares at Keith challengingly.

 

Keith sighs once more before he flicks on his lighter -- some fancy black zippo with a flaming blade across it -- and Lance leans forward to catch the end of his stick in the flame.

 

But Keith moves it to his first. The flames lick over it, he inhales, then snaps the lid back on the lighter. He’s re-pocketing it in a flash, the bastard, but before Lance can get properly annoyed at him for not giving the light he originally offered, Keith is meeting him across the table.

 

Letting the end of his burning cigarette touch Lance’s, he commands with half-lidded eyes, “Suck.”

 

And Lance does -- way, way too hard.

 

The end of his cigarette flares to life, fast and hot, not unlike the way Keith touches him.

 

Except, he’s also dying. In a bad way.

 

Keith falls into a fit of giggles like Lance has never seen before. He’s surprised he can even focus on it, when every inch of his insides feels like it’s on fire. His throat burns, he coughs and splutters. The sting in the back of it tickles and feels like it’s stretching up into his head, behind his eyes, creating an instant headache.

 

In a last attempt to save face, he stubbornly refuses to let the cigarette fall from his mouth. Smoke blooms around them, grating again into his eyes, his nose. The group of people next to them are starting to stare from the amount of noise they’re making.

 

“The look,” Keith wipes tears from the corners of his eyes, balancing his cigarette on the ashtray as he reaches up and plucks the cursed thing from Lance’s lips. “The look on your face, oh my god. Just, when I said that, and then you….shit….”

 

It takes a while for both of them to catch their breath. Lance glares at him from across the table, crossing his arms and feeling like a fool, when a glass of water is pushed towards him. Lance exchanges it with a beer, sliding the bottle forcefully and almost hoping Keith doesn’t catch it.

 

“Heh, as funny as that was, are you okay?” Keith asks, not looking as smug as he did a second ago. He pops open the cap of the bottle by twisting it into his tight, sexy shirt.

 

Lance folds easily, takes the glass, because whatever. It’s not like he has any dignity left to lose.

 

Keith smiles then, a real goddamn smile, and when he does, he doesn’t half ass it. It stretches across his face like the sun, illuminating the smoky, dim lounge with life. Everything around them pales in comparison to its beauty.

 

Lance scrambles to bring the glass to his lips. After drinking a good amount, he gulps, returning with his own weak smile poised on the rim of the cup. His insides are on fire. Everything hurts.

 

Keith is smiling _for him_.

 

“Never been better.”

 

It’s the most honest thing he’s said in months.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re back down in the dark alley behind O’Hara’s. Keith’s got him pressed flush against the wall with one knee between his legs, pants and boxers stretched around his thighs. His erection is swollen and throbbing, completely exposed to the cool air. The grit of brick is chafing against his bare ass and lower back. When Keith moves to put out his cigarette on the wall right by Lance’s shoulder, Lance stops him.

 

“D-don’t,” Lance’s voice is a weak, shaky thing. “Keep...keep smoking while you touch me.”

 

Keith pauses for the barest of moments. His eyebrows raise so high they disappear under the fringe of his hair. Lance feels entirely frozen under the weight of his searching gaze.

 

Unashamed, Lance bucks up, rubbing impatiently against the sharp jut of his knee to distract him.

 

“Keith,” he moans, fisting a hand into his shirt and yanking him up, “Come on, _please_.”

 

“Weirdo,” Keith mutters, but he pulls the cigarette away from the wall, and smashes their lips together instead.

 

Keith tastes like fire and dirt. He tastes like the smoke that leaves Lance gasping for air, he tastes like the sun sticking like chocolate on his lips.

 

Keith grinds his knee upwards, sudden and hard, and Lance claws at his back.

 

The cigarette taunts him as Keith’s lips claim them instead, when Keith hollows his cheeks unnecessarily and _sucks_. He tips his head back like he does whenever he goes down on Lance, eyes barely-there slits, all pleased like he’s really got his dick there, like he’s choking on cum rather than smoke.

 

When Keith exhales, his hand finally grasps him, pumping up and down too level-headedly for Lance’s tastes. Lance’s hips snap, the back of his skull harshly hits the bricks. Every time that Keith pumps up, he inhales; whenever he strokes down, he exhales. It’s so different from the hurried blow jobs he’s used to, to the sloppy makeouts and frenzied heavy petting. It’s painfully slow and newly intimate in a way Lance isn’t sure he could describe even after the fuzz of arousal leaves him.

 

Lance’s thrusts grow more desperate for friction, for release. Keith thumbs his slit as he removes the cigarette to quickly press his mouth to him, coaxing him to part his lips, and Lance’s lungs become flooded with smoke.

 

He doesn’t cough this time. He doesn’t blow it out immediately. Lance holds the exchanged air, and lets the nicotine sing in his veins.

 

Keith takes another drag, stroking his cock from base to tip. Lance grows so loud, Keith pushes two fingers into his mouth to gag him. The cigarette he keeps between his teeth, letting his tongue push it up to do a hands-free exhale.

 

The stick’s dwindled to about half. Lance isn’t sure he’ll make it before the end.

 

“Suck, slut,” Keith manages to say when the cloud of smoke wafts to Lance, and presses a third finger in.

 

And Lance does -- just the right amount.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, the first time Lance convinces Keith to do it is on the roof at the Garrison.

 

There isn’t much else to say about it besides the fact that alcohol may or may not have been involved. And maybe, extremely inebriated after a night on the town, they’d come back together instead of separate for once. Perhaps Keith clung to him the whole way to the Garrison’s dimmed entrance, and maybe he’d licked and nibbled at his neck for a while before Lance had enough of his wits gathered to croak, “ _The roof_.”

 

A statement, not a question. Keith answered it anyway.

 

So maybe they’d stumbled, smothering down laughs as they snuck off down the darkened hallways. Maybe they’d precariously made out in front of a few of their least favorite classrooms, Keith with his middle finger poised in the air as Lance peppered kisses down his neck.

 

So maybe they’d had to dodge all the guards roaming around still, maybe they’d had a close call -- or two, or three.

 

Either way, in the end, they ended up here -- whatever here even was anymore.

 

“My arm.” Lance flings his arm out and waves it in Keith’s face, before he thinks about that for a second. “Wait, no. Then everyone could see it.”

 

“Isn’t that the whole point?” Keith huffs, taking such a long drag on his cigarette that the ash is nearly an impressive inch. He’s poised above Lance, straddling him with his thighs snug around him, squeezing tight.

 

“Well, no,” Lance says, trying to steady his breathing. Keith is so soft and warm, but his mouth is warmer, clinging hot puffs of breath as he hangs inches away from Lance. Wisps of smoke are curling out from between his lips. “I don’t want _everyone_ to see it.”

 

“Then what the fuck are you trying to achieve here?” Keith frowns, running one finger down Lance’s still clothed chest. He flicks a nipple that he’s already brought to harden over his shirt, then tweaks it between two fingers with as much pressure as he can until Lance cries out.

 

Keith smirks. “Pain?”

 

Of course, Keith doesn’t get it.

 

Lance helps him get it, raising his hips to meet Keith’s, grinding in short pulses until Keith arches his back, which pushes their bodies more flush together. They both groan, alcohol fully erasing how much they care about the noise probably reverberating off the roof.

 

“Keith,” Lance nuzzles into Keith’s neck as his vision blurs, and it helps steady it back out, “I don’t want _everyone_ to see it, because I just want _you_ to. Get it?”

 

“Oh,” Keith says, looking dazed. He wobbles for a moment before regaining his balance as Lance snakes a firm arm around his waist. “Well, that's kinda fucked.” Keith lifts his gaze skyward, considering. “...Sounds interesting, though. I like it.”

 

They dissolve into a fit of laughter for an indiscernible amount of time. It can’t be too long, though, because Lance is still harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life when he finds enough breath to form words again.

 

“So can you do it?” Lance waggles his eyebrows. “Take me, claim me as yours, o’ mullet-headed one?”

 

Keith furrows his brows. “Only if you stop saying things like that.”

 

Lance thinks about it, brushing his thumb over the curve of Keith’s hip. “No can do. But this one time, I’ll humor you.”

 

Keith rolls his eyes before he rearranges himself so he’s further away, hushing Lance when he whines at the loss of his body heat, at the loss of more friction. The air is palpable between them as Keith brushes back Lance’s bangs from his eyes.

 

“You really sure about this?”

 

Keith slides Lance’s pants off carefully, inching them down to his knees like he has all the time in the world. He runs one palm over the smooth skin, and Lance shivers, aching to be touched all over by those stained, calloused fingers. There's an embarrassingly sized wet spot covering the front of his boxers already.

 

“I can’t take it back once it’s done,” Keith reminds him softly, taking his last drag.

 

Lance nods until his head spins, and Keith’s thighs squeeze tighter around him. Whimpering, he thinks about Keith marking his initials into his skin, thinks about maybe a nice heart etched deep above it--

 

“I’m going to--you know.”

 

Keith gestures to his palm. The end of the cigarette is hanging less than an inch from Lance’s thigh. Lance pushes back a loud groan, he can feel the heat caressing his skin.

 

“Fuck, Keith, just do it, just fucking do it you piece of shit, I want to--”

 

And Keith does -- not nearly hard enough.

 

But it’s enough that he can feel it. Fuck, can he feel it.

 

“But also pain, yes, hello, nice.” Lance clenches Keith’s arm, hips rising so high off the ground that Keith has to push him back down in a light restraint. He gasps into Keith’s mouth when he lunges to meet him, mumbling like a mantra around his lips, “O-oh my god, the pain is _so_ good.”

 

It isn’t long before he’s telling him to do it again, until Keith is fumbling with his lighter as he never once breaks eye contact with Lance, as if too entranced by what he’s seeing to miss a moment of it. The pain shoots up Lance’s leg, rises to a throbbing high he can’t come down from. It’s raw, sharp and good, stinging around the singed flesh and radiating dully out over his body.

 

But it’s too brief, a fleeting thing that only leaves him craving more.

 

Keith tries to flick the lighter on about five times before his fingers finally decide to work properly again. His hands are shaking when they grab the deadened cigarette and bring it back to life. When he gets it, Lance almost cries in relief.

 

“Put it in a place where...where no one can see b-but you,” Lance tells him, wrapping his arms around Keith’s neck as Keith sinks the newly burning edge into his skin.

 

“Fuck,” Lance muffles into his collarbone, jerking aimlessly up. He’s so close already.

 

Something changes in the stretch of Keith’s eyes, in the spark that comes alive with it. He grinds the butt harder than last time, doesn’t hold back. A scream that tears from Lance’s lips doesn’t go far as Keith slams his free palm back over his mouth.

 

Lance continues talking through it all, keeps speaking muffled against the spit that gathers on Keith’s palm whenever fire meets flesh.

 

“--and when you see me in the hallways and class, you’ll know it’s there, waiting for you, like a brand, like a tattoo--”

 

The third time Lance feels it more on his inner thigh, probably the most sensitive part of him,  and his dick twitches with the contact. He can’t stop thinking about what it must look like, what Keith must be feeling on the other end of this.

 

Because it’s incredible for him, it’s white-hot and searing, feverish and chilling all at the same time. Adrenaline is rushing through him, pulsing in time with the spike of alcohol and his heightened senses are overwhelmingly filled with _Keith, Keith, Keith_.

 

He trusts Keith, and Keith trusts him, and things are _good_.

 

“--and you’ll get _so_ hard, thinking about it, thinking about what’s beneath my uniform--”

 

Lance shoves a hand unceremoniously down Keith’s pants, instantly rewarded with a sharp gasp.

 

“--you won’t be able to focus for weeks. You’ll fail a simulation for the first time in your life. You’ll do poorly on all your tests because you can’t stop thinking about biting my thighs and fucking them and--”

 

Keith rolls his hips, slips his fingers past Lance’s loose lips and curls them in. Lance gags around his laughter.

 

“God, you’re such a little fucking whore, aren’t you?” There’s no malice in his eyes when Keith says it, only fire and brimstone and so much energy skittering over Lance’s skin he’s tingling everywhere. He thrusts the fingers in and out in time with the slapping of his hips. “Just _shut up_ , Lance, just  _shut the fuck up_.”

 

At some point, the cigarette gets tossed aside. They both come, shaking and breathless, in their pants like they’re fourteen again. Afterwards, Keith gathers him up in his arms and kisses him, slowly, softly, and Lance’s view tilts to the stars.

 

They watch them silently together.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ouch.” Lance flinches when the antiseptic hits his burning skin. “You’re doing it wrong. It hurts.”

 

“Hold still,” Keith commands, pushing Lance’s knee back towards the toilet when he tries to wriggle away from the stream of it. “And I’m not doing it wrong, it’s _supposed_ to hurt.”

 

Lance pokes at the reddened, raised flesh dotting his thighs. It looks a lot worse than it feels -- or at least _did feel_ , before Keith decided to play evil nurse in one of the stalls in the bathroom at O’Hara’s. He circles that first burn Keith made, which isn’t as deep or blistered as badly. It’s more starkly white than the others, though, and has a larger ring of red around it. Keith smacks his fingers away, chastising him that there’s ‘ _too many germs beneath his fingernails_ ’, or some stupid shit like that.

 

They’re already in a nasty bathroom, so he doesn’t see how his super clean hands could be a problem, but well. He’s not going to fight Keith about it, because there’s something sort of oddly touching about the situation.

 

“It’s like an open wound, okay?” Keith murmurs, dabbing over the marks gently to dry them. “You’re just gonna have to deal with it. I don’t want you to get an infection--”

 

“Aww, that’s sweet of you to--”

 

“--cause then I’d never hear the end of your complaining.”

 

“...Oh.” Lance frowns, but shrugs, “I’ll still take it.”

 

Keith uses that split second where he’s distracted to put on the burn ointment, which feels relieving in its coolness, but not so in the sudden contact it makes with his sore skin.

 

“Fuck, are you trying to kill me?” Lance whines, thighs tensing, digging his fingernails into the heels of his palms. “You’re the worst nurse ever.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m in flight school and not pre-med,” Keith clicks his tongue, rubbing in a little more until Lance hisses between his teeth. “What is your deal now? You didn’t even complain when I was doing it, and there’s no way that didn’t hurt worse than this.”

 

“That was different. _That_ was super hot. This isn’t hot at all,” Lance snaps back, sucking in his lower lip. Keith snorts.

 

“Plus, you were touching my dick.” Lance throws an arm dramatically across his forehead. “That’s not happening right now, you’re just pouring salt in my tender wounds.”

 

Keith raises an eyebrow before opening a package of gauze with his teeth. “Would you shut up if I started touching your dick then?”

 

Lance tilts his head, leans back on the seat of the toilet as he flashes him a smile. “Probably not, because this is still _really_ unsexy.” He lets his eyes rove over Keith’s form, thoughtful, not disliking the way Keith flushes. “Put on a real nurse’s uniform, and then we’ll see.”

 

His hand naturally gravitates back to inching towards the marks, and again, Keith brushes it away. Lance has lost track of exactly how many times Keith has sighed in the past half-hour.

 

“Not everything is supposed to be sexy, Lance. Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

Lance pouts the entire time Keith takes to wrap the bandage, and maybe then some.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro gets assigned as the pilot on the Kerberos mission, due to leave in about a month. Keith is being a lot moodier than usual. Lance is fairly certain the two things are related.

 

Lance backs him into a dark corner not long after they drink their fair share at O’Hara’s. Keith has been clinging to his side for most of the night, and the constant press of his cold fingers playing with the hem of his shirt and slipping up it, has been driving him completely out of his mind. There’s been endless touches fluttering over his crotch, feet teasing him under the table while they were sitting. Keith dragged him to the dance floor only to grind against him until he moaned, then promptly flit away to get more drinks, grinning the whole time.

 

“You’re doing this on _purpose_ ,” Lance hisses, casing his body in front of him and pressing their hips together. He’s rubbing on his thigh enough that he knows Keith can feel the thick of his erection, which hasn’t gotten any bit of relief. He’s throbbing, aching, and it’s been torture. He doesn’t know why Keith won’t just drag him outside and get this over with.

 

Keith laughs, all loose-limbed and flushing from alcohol. “Maybe,” he replies, slurring a little and narrowing his eyes, “But what are you gonna do about it?”

 

“Oh,” Lance says, grabbing his arm and jerking him towards the back exit, “You’re about to see what I’m gonna do about it.”

 

The second Lance throws Keith’s back towards the wall outside, he feigns disinterest, reaching automatically to the pocket where Lance knows he keeps his pack. The only redeeming quality to that blow to his ego, is that when Keith hit the brick, he let out a small, startled gasp.

 

Lance lunges forward, stops Keith mid-way to bringing the cigarette to his lips by pinning his wrists against the wall. “What the _fuck_ is your problem tonight?”

 

Keith squirms in his grasp. He aims a kick to his knees, but the alcohol sloshing through him only throws him off balance when he lifts his leg. Lance has no issues keeping him in place, though his grip loosens out of pity.

 

“Jesus, how much did you drink?” Lance asks, squinting as he stares at Keith’s glassy, unfocused eyes. He’s never seen him this far gone before. He wrinkles his nose at the smell permeating off of him. “You fucking reek.”

 

“‘S none of your damn business,” Keith spits at him, fury scrawled on his face. Lance sighs, and Keith roughly pushes him away the second he realizes Lance isn’t really holding him down anymore.

 

Lance stands there awkwardly, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping in his veins, trying to will away his boner. It isn’t helping that Keith is watching him the whole way to bringing the stick to his lips, eyes to half mast. He wets them gratuitously before popping it in his mouth. The whole act probably would have Lance coming in his pants right there and then if Keith wasn’t struggling so much to flick on the flame of his lighter.

 

Lance holds out his hand. “Alright, let me help you. Give it here.”

 

“No,” Keith says stubbornly. “Fuck off.”

 

He tries to flick it on about three more times before Lance snaps. Bending his arm back in a one handed-grab, he wrestles the lighter from Keith’s unsteady hands.

 

However, he drops it shortly after, because Keith is suddenly kissing him.

 

His mouth is immediately devouring him, hungry and bruising, needy and relentless. Keith switches their positions, slamming him so hard against the brick that Lance sees stars. He’s practically shoving his tongue down his throat, hands threading into Lance’s hair and tugging enough that Lance howls in pain. Keith yanks his lower lip between his teeth, bites until the taste of blood is fresh on his tongue.

 

“Keith,” Lance gasps around his lips, placing his palms against his chest to try and put some distance between them. “Keith, just wait a second--”

 

Keith stops instantly, hands leaving his hair to dig crescents into Lance’s forearms. He ducks his head down, breathing raspy and uneven, letting his forehead rest on Lance’s chin. It’s sweaty and searing to the touch.

 

“‘M sorry,” he says, mouthing over the bend of Lance’s throat, “Sorry, sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

 

“God,” Lance lets his head drift backwards, breath tumbling in huge, heaving gasps. It’s not hard to sort out his raging hormones now when it’s obvious that Keith is upset, and way, way too drunk to be doing this. “Fuck. What? Why would I do that?”

 

Keith doesn’t answer him, just presses himself closer. Tentatively, Lance wraps his arms around him, unsure if Keith is going to continue being combative.

 

But he allows it without protest, molding into the touch, going boneless and limp in his hold.

 

“I’m not...I’m not going to leave you, Keith,” Lance murmurs, cupping the back of his neck and drawing his head to his chest. He strokes a soothing hand through his hair. Keith folds right into him. “I’m right here.”

 

“I know, I’m being s-stupid,” Keith says, sounding like a wounded animal, words so faint Lance almost misses them. “Sorry.”

 

They stand like that for a few minutes.

 

Lance _knows_ the two things are _definitely_ related.

 

Desire wanes away, inching out of his skin to be replaced with melancholy. He shakes his head. When he drops his arms, Keith looks up at him, confusion scrawled across his face. Disoriented, like he isn’t so sure where he is.

 

Lance throws out a hand, and Keith stares at it like he can’t comprehend its purpose. “Come on. We’re going back inside right now, you’re gonna drink a whole shit-ton of water, and then I’m dragging your ass back to your dorm. I’ll even tuck you into bed, I don’t give a fuck if anyone sees us.”

 

“O-okay,” Keith nods, tottering in place.

 

Seeming to come back to his senses, he takes hold of his offered hand. Lance squeezes his palm and threads their fingers together.

 

And Lance does -- he gets written up for it, but he does.

 

* * *

 

 

Their real first time happens in a dingy motel.

 

Life isn’t made of fairytales. The reality of the situation is that they can’t risk getting frisky again at the Garrison -- definitely not after the rumors started when a student apparently reported hearing strange noises from the roof during their escapades that night. He already has one strike on his record, and who the fuck knows how many Keith has.

 

Things were different after that last night at O’Hara’s. Spring break was coming up soon, and they were about to get some free time to do as they pleased. Keith had pulled him aside after class later that week, said he thought maybe it would be better to have a proper place to mess around in. Shuffling his feet and pressing his hands into his pockets, he told him that he deserved better than that. Lance told him he didn’t mind it -- liked it, in fact -- but Keith just shook his head.

 

 _“Not what I meant,”_ he’d whispered into his ear, grinning, _“There’s only so many things we can do out there.”_

 

He’d patted him on the shoulder, like he was some coach giving a pep talk to his team, and then went off to his next class. It took Lance about five minutes standing there in the hallway like an idiot before he realized he must have said some form of eager agreement before running off to the bathroom to jerk off.

 

It might not be the picture perfect romantic fantasy Lance has always had in mind, but there’s a bed here, a real, tangible _bed_ that his back is being currently pressed into.

 

And that’s enough, it really, really is.

 

Keith laughs when Lance throws himself fully onto the bed and splays his limbs out, moving them back and forth like he’s making a snow angel.

 

“A _bed_! Oh my, Mr. Romeo, what did I do to deserve such luxury?” Lance locks in that pompous, stereotypical rich-white-girl-British accent he knows Keith totally enjoys. “You spoil me so, Reginald.”

 

“Ugh,” Keith pulls a face, sighing. Maybe since it’s a special night, though, he can’t find it in him to gripe about it like he usually does.

 

He climbs onto the bed, straddles Lance. He keeps his lips hanging just above his for that split, breathtaking second.

 

“A little birdy told me you like to be pampered, so…” His hands clamp down like cuffs over Lance’s wrists, he presses their hips together. Lance’s lips begin to go numb from suppressing laughter. “I went all out here, got the best room at the Dustbowl Inn. Top notch. It has the least amount of mysterious stains on the floor, and probably only one murder happened in here over the years.”

 

A giggle burbles out of Lance as Keith slips his palm under his shirt, crawling his fingers up the expanse of Lance’s lean waist, across his stomach and over his chest. The touches are too light, leaving Lance squirming, curling his toes. Keith circles a nipple with the pad of his finger until it hardens.

 

Keith leans down, worries his earlobe just as Lance’s breath hitches. “Did you know…” Keith whispers, hot and breathy, “...that they put a little scented pine tree in the bathroom? Like the kind that’s only supposed to be in cars?”

 

“ _No way_ ,” Lance gasps, laughing through the next kiss Keith places on his lips. “Oh no, wait. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

 

Keith's smirk is practically swallowing his face. “I heard only true royalty gets that. The behind-the-scenes bourgeoisie life.”

 

“Oh my god,” Lance snorts, wrapping his legs around Keith and palming him through his jeans, “Is it at least cinnamon? That one’s not so bad.”

 

Keith presses warm, kiss-swollen lips to his adam’s apple, curling a bit of Lance’s hair around his finger as his own smile flashes to the side. “Yup. I requested it.”

 

“Holy shit, you _didn’t_ ,” Lance exclaims into the crook of his neck, laughter practically bellowing out of him now.

 

He’s not sure he can keep the mood when all he can do is picture Keith calling some poor hotel clerk and requesting cinnamon-scented things in an impressive attempt at being romantic. He honestly didn’t know Keith had a side to him like that, nor does he remember telling Keith about one of his favorite scents in the first place.

 

While he jots it down in his memory, saves it on his growing list of things he’s learned about Keith over time, Keith takes the moment to wrangle his shirt over his head, then moves to help Lance out of his own.

 

Now half naked, Keith stares at him, caresses never stopping across his stomach and down to the jut of his hipbones. Lance groans when he thumbs back over a nipple.

 

“I did,” Keith inhales audibly, eyes boring holes over Lance’s skin until he shivers from implication alone of what’s to come, “and goddammit, do you owe me for that one.”

 

That familiar, disgruntled look settles back on Keith’s face, softening only when Lance arches off the bed, coaxing Keith to keep moving. For a few minutes, Keith becomes distracted with marking Lance’s skin, right around his collarbone and chest, where they both know no one will see but them.

 

Keith’s lips meet his own, eventually, languidly. They’ve never done anything this slowly before, but it’s nice. It’s nice to be able to explore, to be able to see each other fully naked and appreciate it without being pressed for time, to be able to discover and map out their most sensitive spots without fabric getting in the way. To do it sober, without them reeking of a dive bar, completely changes the experience.

 

As much as Lance enjoys the thrill, the rush and grit of doing things like this in places where they probably shouldn’t, it’s admittedly nice to have his body writhing on a soft surface rather than the grating itch of brick or concrete. There’s something about being really alone for once -- the privacy, the intimacy, maybe -- that has all his blood quickly rushing south.

 

Keith pulls away, sighing in one part exasperation, two parts satisfaction. “I asked for candles, though.” He seems genuinely downcast about that, and it’s adorable. “I asked for _cinnamon candles_ , Lance, and they put in one lousy fucking car pine tree.”

 

“Keith, oh my god, stop,” Lance laughs, running his fingers up the length of Keith’s torso. It almost looks like he’s about to get sincerely angry, but then, Lance draws him back in easily when he sinks his teeth around one of Keith’s nipples, swirls his tongue over it.

 

“Y-you don’t understand,” Keith shudders into the press of his mouth, letting his head fall to the side, “It doesn’t even smell like _cinnamon_ \--”

 

“It’s okay, Keith,” Lance laces his arms around his waist, tugging him closer again. “In my heart, you’re still the most perfect sugar daddy a guy could ever ask for.”

 

Keith curls his fingers into the waistband of Lance’s jeans, swiftly unbuttons them and then bends down to pull the zipper between his teeth. _Show off_ , Lance thinks, but he whimpers and bucks his hips, all the same.

  
“Well, yeah, I knew only the fanciest stuff for you would do, since you’re such a fucking _princess_ ,” Keith mutters into his thigh, mouthing over one scar, yanking his pants further down.

 

Despite the playful roleplay, Lance gets the feeling he really means that one. His pulse spikes, every part of him growing insurmountably warmer. Keith works a bit of the over-sensitive skin between his teeth, sucking lightly. Lance almost accidentally kicks him in the face.

 

Keith releases it, sits back on Lance’s thighs. He reaches forward to cup his chin, brushing his thumb over Lance’s reddened lips, staring very seriously into his eyes. “...There’s also some high quality tap water for later. Right from the sink, all you could ever want.”

 

“Oh?” Lance lets his eyes go wide with false surprise, nudging Keith away so he can shuck off the other leg of his pants and underwear. “That sounds divine, darling.”

 

He lays himself back down completely exposed, fully hard, watching the hint of dark, raw lust grow in Keith’s eyes.

 

“Mmhmm. J-just let the water run for a few seconds until it turns clear again, and you’re...good to go.”

 

Keith stands, fingers playing at his own zipper, but not pulling it down. Lance can see the strain around his crotch, can make out the twitch of his cock when Lance teasingly cants his hips just _so_.

 

Looking like it’s taking all of his strength to turn away, Keith stumbles to the shopping bag in the corner. He returns in seconds flat with a condom and a small bottle of lube, finally shrugging off his own pants. He fumbles a little when they’re around his ankles, almost trips over his feet and into the bed.

 

Reality hits Lance then, and hits him hard. That they’re really doing this, that Keith is probably sorting out his own insecurities with losing his -- well, _technical_ \-- virginity. Lance’s nerves are near bursting themselves with over-excitement and anticipation. He’s dreamt of this moment for so long, of having Keith inside of him, of being completely claimed and consumed by him exactly the way Keith wraps his lips around a cigarette and takes what he wants.

 

Keith gives him a wry smile before settling himself between Lance’s thighs.

 

“But seriously, dude, don’t look in the cupboards. There’s roaches.”

 

Their first time happens in a dingy, insect infested hotel with one lone, cinnamon-not-cinnamon scented pine tree in the bathroom, but the worn sheets feel like satin, and with Keith’s hands all over him, Lance swears he’s the luckiest man in the world.

 

He couldn’t think of a more perfect place to do this.

 

There are perfectly round burn scars littered all up and down his trembling thighs. It’s the first time he thinks Keith has properly gotten a good look at them outside of seedy outdoor lighting, and it’s obvious his attention’s drawn to them. Both of his thighs are marked now, evenly so, as Keith takes great pride and care in crafting his masterpieces.

 

It’s a sharp contrast to his dark skin, thick, raised pink scar tissue sprinkled like a pattern akin to freckles, and Keith’s playing connect the dots. Lance loves them, loves the way they look and feel, how the new skin is even more sensitive and seems to contain the memories of where they came from within them.

 

But he finds out that night that Keith loves them more.

 

“Keith, please…”

 

Lance is falling apart in no time, spread wide on the sheets, hands clutching ruthlessly at the fabric. Keith has been slowly easing him open, taking his time with each added finger. There are kisses being peppered over his scars in between each steady twist of his fingers, so gentle and loving Lance chokes back a cry. There’s a sound, something like a candy wrapper being open. Lance barely registers it, through the heat blinding his vision, through the fire coursing in his veins.

 

“Keith, Keith.” Lance’s hips jerk sharply, his fingers tangle in Keith’s hair. He can’t wait any longer, no, not when he feels like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. “Do it, please, do it now, I need you, I want you--”

 

And Keith does -- exactly like he’s always wanted.

 

He takes him so softly, so sweetly, that the world crumbles to ash around them. Smoke swirls between their joined bodies. Keith’s mouth tastes like the bitter leaves of tobacco and dirt when he kisses him, while he sinks fully into him and moves forward in short, rhythmic thrusts.

 

Keith builds up to it as best he can, trying to get a feel for what Lance likes. When he pulls one of Lance’s legs up and throws it experimentally over his shoulder, angling himself deeper and stretching Lance wider, Lance sings for him. It feels amazing to let go, to cry out as loudly as he wants, with no fingers having to be shoved into his mouth to staunch the sounds.

 

In between screwing his eyes shut in pleasure, Lance makes Keith his focus, forcing himself to maintain eye contact when he learns to move, too.

 

He rocks back as hard as he can.

 

Keith roams his hands over his scars, grips his hips tighter, moans into Lance’s ear. One hand stays between them to stroke his cock, firm, but urgent. Keith’s saying a jumbled mess of things Lance can barely make out, but in the crescendo of orgasm, he’s telling him he’s beautiful, telling him that he loves--

 

Neither of them last long after that, but it’s perfect the way it is. It’s the most euphoric experience of Lance’s life.

 

They’re a tangled mess of limbs in the end, sweat slicked and panting, basking in the afterglow without a word. Lance tucks his face into Keith’s heaving chest. Keith wraps his arms around him like he’s afraid to let go.

 

He’s losing his battle with consciousness, but Keith is still clearly wound up. He stirs to pull a cigarette from the bedside table. Lighting it lazily, he squeezes Lance tighter to him, his free hand running up and down the gooseflesh that continues sitting there on his arm. Lance inhales deeply, a smile playing along his lips, and lets the smoke and familiar smell settle over him.

 

Lance thinks only one thing before he dozes off.

 

Keith fucks the way he smokes.

 

* * *

 

 

Not long after the news of the failed Kerberos mission hits the crowded, gossiping halls of the Garrison, Lance is startled by rapid-fire pounding at his door.

 

It’s Keith on the other side, but it isn’t Keith. He’s paler than Lance has ever seen him, looks like he’s about to lose his lunch. Lance’s roommate stares curiously as Keith grabs his arm, squeezing it in a vice grip. His knuckles are torn and bloody on both hands.

 

“The roof,” Keith says, voice cracking. His hair and eyes are wild, like he hasn’t slept in days.

 

Lance goes with him, barefoot with his pajamas on, without protest.

 

Keith immediately curls up in his arms when they get there, smaller than Lance has ever seen him. They don’t talk about it. Lance already knows.

 

And they stay that way for a long time, holding each other, watching the sky. It’s starting to get warmer during the days, but the nights are still fairly chilly. The stars are as bright as they are dull.

 

“...Hey, Lance,” Keith finally says, fingers curling tighter into Lance’s sweatshirt.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I want to tell you something.” Keith looks up, but he isn’t looking at him, just the stars. “Do you... remember that guy I punched?”

 

Lance blinks. It takes him a moment to realize he must have let out a noise of surprise, because Keith keeps talking.

 

“That asshole I punched. The one whose nose I broke.” Lance stares down at him. He remembers, but he doesn’t understand. “Back then, you asked why I punched him.”

 

Lance gathers Keith’s hair to the side of his neck, lets his lips brush gently against his nape. “Yeah…”

 

“...It’s because he called you a faggot.”

 

“What...” Lance raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

 

“Yeah,” Keith says, like any of this conversation makes sense, “I overheard him calling you a faggot, so I punched him. He deserved it, you didn’t.”

 

“I, um, well--” Lance doesn’t think this is necessarily the time to bring up how much that turned him on again, so he settles with accepting it for what it was. “Thank you for that...you know I appreciate it. But...why are you telling me this now?”

 

“I just--” Keith’s voice is small, muffled when he buries his face back in his chest. “I just wanted you to know, because...” The pause stirs something deep in the pit of Lance’s stomach. “...I just wanted you to know.”

 

Lance gives a chaste kiss to his neck in response, and doesn’t press it. His mother once told him how grief can do strange things to a person, can make them say and act in unusual ways, so he brushes away the foreboding feeling that comes from Keith’s words. He runs his palm in soothing circles over Keith’s back, strings his fingers through his overgrown hair.

 

Inhaling at the top of his head, Lance notes that he doesn’t smell like smoke tonight.

 

“We should go back inside,” Lance breathes into his hair, rubbing Keith’s bare arms, worried about how cold they feel. “It’s getting late, they’ll be doing a headcount soon.”

 

“It’s alright, I don’t really care if I get written up.” The way Keith looks is nothing short of sobering, balled up with his arms clutching his legs desperately to his chest. Lance doesn’t particularly know what to do to help him. “You go on ahead, I want to sit out here a little longer.”

 

Lance smooths his lips over top of his head before he goes, squeezes him tight one last time. He can respect if Keith wants to be alone.

 

When Lance reaches the door, Keith calls back softly, a murmur that gets lost against the backdrop of the blowing wind, “I love you.”

 

Lance wishes he hadn’t turned around at the sound, because Keith’s head is tipped upwards, and he can now see that his cheeks are damp with silent tears. Lance repeats it back, and he’s never meant anything more in his life.

 

Lance tries to leave him his sweatshirt, Keith refuses to take it.

 

He thinks he hears him apologize, but it could just be the wind.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime during the night, Keith slips away quietly. He disappears without a word, without a trace. He never even says goodbye -- not to Lance, not to anyone. One minute they had been up on the roof, cuddling, consoling, and the next, Lance was faced with an empty chair in class and bile rising up his throat.

 

It takes Lance a few days to realize that that night _was_ Keith’s way of saying goodbye. He knows the real meaning behind Keith’s last words to him now. He should have seen this coming. He knew better than to think Keith wouldn’t go down for the people he loved without a fight first.

 

The instructors seem to know something that Lance doesn’t, but they’re keeping as tight lipped as the Kerberos mission. Lance would say he’s pretty torn up about it, but after Iverson threatens to put another large, red strike on his record too, he does everything in his power to convince himself he’s not. He has a scholarship to maintain, his family to continue making proud. They could really use the extra money he’ll be making after he graduates.

 

So, as much as he’d like to just disappear off the face of the Earth now like everyone around him seems to be doing lately, he can’t.

 

Life goes on regardless. He gets promoted to fighter class, a muted victory always in the ghost of Keith’s ever-present shadow. They gain a new team member, Pidge, and he’s a chill guy that they sometimes hit the town with.

 

Some of those nights, maybe Lance lingers a little longer at O’Hara’s than he probably should. Maybe he sits off at a familiar table by himself, nursing a drink and watching, waiting. Sometimes he might even bum a cigarette off a stranger, sucking back on it hard enough that he can almost pretend it tastes like kissing Keith.

 

The months pass, seasons change, and no one ever comes to join him at _their_ table. Hunk and Pidge sure as hell know better than to bother him when he gets like that.

 

When the mood strikes him, Lance always traces the scar tissue along his thighs as he touches himself. He hooks up with a few people here and there, girls and guys alike, but they’re all dull, one night stands that pale in comparison to what he really wants.

 

It’s fine, he’s only trying to have some fun. Fun in the name of the prime years of his youth, and all that jazz. He doesn’t particularly care for the way those nameless eyes linger - judging, pitying - over his scars, anyway. One time he even stormed out, half-naked and seething, when one girl told him outright they were gross.

 

He’ll defend them until the end of time, because those people are wrong. They aren’t disgusting or something to be pitied, they’re _love_ written directly on his body, a physical imprint that will forever stay to both haunt and comfort him.

 

Overall, it’s an emotional mix of good and bad days. His grades improve, even though he never does quite get a hang of the simulation -- which might have more to do with him trying to avoid practicing because of how much it reminds him of Keith and the way he flies, but that seems like it could be a cheap cop-out.

 

He has Hunk, he goes out and does things that he enjoys. Although reserved and often much too blunt, Pidge isn’t too hard to get along with, and Lance doesn’t mind his company either.

 

Life goes on, and it’s still mostly good.

 

Then there are the days he can’t be bothered to even get out of bed, the hours coming and going like smoke, and all he can taste in his mouth is bitter ash.

 

Some things change in a year, some things stay the same. The only constant is the aching in his heart.

 

But by the time Lance finally sees Keith again at the end of that excruciatingly long year, spotting him ironically from the roof, he’s all fire and smoke and ash in the midst of an explosion -- just exactly how Lance remembers him.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don’t know what to say about this. Jul & Epi & I were talking about Lance being Keith’s lil ashtray and this was supposed to be purely kinky fun, but I added like probably way more angst than was necessary. Haha, oh well. Hopefully everyone enjoys it, and thanks for reading <3
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> garrison klance is my life & i could probs talk about it forever if you let me. Also, I left Keith’s relationship with Shiro purposefully ambiguous, so you can interpret that any way you want. But I will say that while Keith was with Lance, he definitely wasn’t romantically/sexually involved with anyone else. Lance is just very...unreasonably jealous…or maybe not...I mean, have you seen Shiro? Christ. Poor guy.


End file.
